I’ve never been one for subtlety.
After the third ring, someone hangs up the phone. I can hear the muffled sound of a split second of connection.
So someone’s there.
I take a chance and call back. This time the pickup is immediate.
“What do you want?” The voice on the other end of the line is shaky and high-pitched. It’s a man’s voice. By the rate of his breathing, it sounds like he’s hyperventilating.
“Hi, this is . . .” I fumble for a second before landing on a name. “Roger.”
“Whatever you want, Roger, you’ve got the wrong number. Don’t call back.”
“I’m just trying to get some info on They Walk Among Us. Are you one of the writers or editors or whatever?”
“I said, you have the wrong number.”
Click. The voice on the other end is gone.
I slam my fist on my dashboard and try to figure out what to do next. Then I say, “Screw it,” and dial back. This time the man sounds pissed when he answers.
“Don’t. Call. Again.”
“My friend is in trouble,” I blurt out. There’s silence from the other dude, so I continue. “She’s missing. It has something to do with the Mogadorians. I just want to find her. I just want to know that she’s okay.”
I sink back into the driver’s seat, letting my head hit the rest behind me.
“Please,” I say.
There’s a long sigh on the other end of the line. When the voice comes back, it sounds like the guy is crying.
“We don’t publish the newsletter anymore. They’ve taken everything. What more do you want from us? What more do you want? They’ve taken everything.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” I ask, but I can guess. “The Mogs? Did they get to you?”
There’s no answer on the other end. I take the phone away from my ear and stare at it for a moment before hanging up. I shouldn’t be surprised that this was the fate of the magazine. Hell, I’m surprised anyone was left alive at all.
I message GUARD about the conversation. Then I make a proposal.
JOLLYROGER182: the people who subscribed to They Walk Among Us knew about the Mogs. it was in their mag
GUARD: Right. We know that.
JOLLYROGER182: we should change the name of our blog. make it easier for true believers to find
GUARD: You want us to become the new TWAU?
JOLLYROGER182: i think it might help us find some new recruits. and the more people in on this the more chances I have of figuring out what happened to Sarah
GUARD: It’ll make us even bigger targets if the Mogs shut down the old TWAU.
JOLLYROGER182: but u r a computer whiz. untraceable addresses and IPs. im not worried.
GUARD: Let’s do it. I’m emailing you an encrypted file. Password is a sea monster’s planet.
I know exactly what he’s talking about—this morning before I left for school, we’d made fun of an old article I found in They Walk Among Us about how sea krakens come from the planet Schlongda. It was maybe the first time I’d ever got a hint that GUARD had a not-so-serious side. Now that Sarah’s gone, he’s kind of the only person I can talk to about everything that’s going on. I know I haven’t met him in person or even talked to him on the phone, but he seems like the smartest person I’ve ever met. The things he can do with a laptop and internet connection blow my mind.
And when I get home and open the file he’s sent me on my computer, I am nothing less than astonished.
I’m staring at a text file that lists a ton of information on Agent Purdy. Not things like his bio or what he’s working on, but numbers that hold a much different power. Telephone numbers. Bank accounts. Passwords.
I message GUARD.
JOLLYROGER182: how the hell did you get all this????!
GUARD: I’m an internet wizard.
GUARD: Oh, and I’d print that out and then delete that file. IT WAS NEVER HERE.
JOLLYROGER182: can you get into his email and stuff?
GUARD: I’m trying, but it’s all intranet stuff. Heavy, heavy firewall. Lots of stuff off-line too.
JOLLYROGER182: what if we had his work computer?
JOLLYROGER182: would 1 of these passwords open it?
GUARD: That’s a different story.
GUARD: Wait. Are you about to do something really stupid?
I’ve been dying for a way to take action. I guess I just found it.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
BEFORE I LEAVE NANA’S I PUT A FEW NOTES ON my desk. If I’m caught, there’s a chance I’ll be shoved into a black van and never see the light of day again. That’s how the FBI and Mogs work, right? If that’s the case, I don’t want my family thinking that I ran away because of them or something. I want them to know that I didn’t just abandon them for no reason.
And if possible, that they should probably get out of Paradise too. This town is getting too dangerous. I leave a separate note addressed to Mom, telling her I’m sorry I haven’t called and that she should bring Dad and Nana up to Cleveland. That way they’ll be together, and out of Mog central.
I hope they don’t have to read the notes.
I set up an automatic blog post too with my draft from earlier on what had really happened at Paradise High. If I don’t log in and adjust the post time—if I get taken away—it will go live in a week. Maybe others can learn from what I knew. Maybe they’ll be able to find Sarah if I can’t.
I park my truck in an alley near the station where I can just see the front doors through a chain-link fence. There are a couple of agents milling about inside, but that’s all I can see. I message GUARD, who is acting as a diversion for me, calling one of the phone lines the FBI has commandeered and reporting to whoever answers that a teenager with glowing hands and the power to move things with his mind just entered a truck stop outside of town. Whatever he says, it must be convincing, because the agents fly out of the station, jumping into their black SUVs and disappearing down the dark streets. I wonder briefly if Dad’s being called in. I hope he’s in good enough shape to put himself together, if he has.
An agent stays at the front desk, but I’ve figured out a way around that already. There’s a window in the men’s bathroom with a latch that’s been broken since I was a kid. I remember once a rookie cop locked himself out of the station and got stuck climbing through it. But I’m more athletic than he was, and after crossing the street and skulking around to the side of the station, I’m bracing my arms against a porcelain sink as I pull the rest of my body inside, careful to close the window as softly as I can with my foot.
I’m in. Now I just have to stay hidden.
I walk out into the hallway where the bathrooms and some closets are and peek around the corner. There are a few rows of desks between me and the agent at the front, who seems glued to a computer screen. Dad’s office is across the station, twenty yards away. Just two first downs, I tell myself. It’s a cakewalk.
I’m halfway across the station when my dad’s office door opens.
It takes half a second for me to slam onto the floor and roll under a desk, where I hold my breath and try to fight off the trembling in my hands. I must have been fast enough, because the two men who walk out of the office don’t stop talking.
“I’m telling you, the situation here is under control,” a man’s voice says with a slight wheeze. “My agents are—”
“If things were really under control, Four couldn’t walk in and out of this backwoods town as if it was his own private warship,” the other man bellows, his voice like a bass drum. “I never should have left Paradise to someone who couldn’t handle it. From now on my soldiers will be taking over here.”
I flatten myself on the floor and press my face up against the bottom of the desk, which offers me an inch or two of room to see through.
“That’s not necessary,” the wheezy man says. His face is pink and piggish, with a big, busted nose that looks like he’s been tackled one too many times. I recognize him from th
e photo GUARD and I had found online: Purdy. At least that means Dad’s office is empty if they leave. If they stay—well, I’m completely screwed. The other man is a behemoth. He’s at least seven feet tall, with jet-black hair pulled back into a ponytail that disappears beneath his black coat. From the back, he’s a wall of a man. A mountain.
“Your usefulness wears thin, Purdy,” he says. “Don’t let it wear out completely.”
The giant of a man takes a step forward, then pauses. He turns his face to the back of the station, towards me, as if he’s heard something. The man’s eyes are almost completely black. They reflect the buzzing fluorescent lights overhead.
I’m looking at a Mogadorian. I’d recognize those terrifying black eyes anywhere. I don’t breathe. If I could stop my heartbeat, I would in order to keep him from discovering me.
But he turns away, barking at Purdy.
“Take me to Number Four,” he says.
He means John, I think. I’ve only got a few minutes before they realize the report is a sham.
As soon as the station door shuts, I roll out from under the desk and tiptoe across the room. Fortunately, the agent at the front desk is trying to make himself look as busy as possible, and he types loudly on the keyboard, giving me at least a tiny bit of noise cover.
Luck stays on my side: my dad’s keys still work.
Once I’m standing in Dad’s office, I allow myself a second or two to exhale and get my shit together, though the fact that I almost got caught and probably just saw a high-ranking Mog is hard to get past. The office has changed quite a bit since I was in it last, when Dad was dragging me out the night John was taken in. There are a few big boxes sitting in one corner that look like they’re full of all the files and papers that used to litter the place when it was my dad’s. The desk is tidy now—compulsively so—which is great for me because it means less to sort through.
I take a seat in the chair behind the desk and rifle through some of the papers and files. They don’t tell me anything. It’s all memos and bulletins that are the kinds of things that go up on the FBI website—public information. I’m looking for something a little more secretive than that.
Purdy’s laptop is sleek and black, like something out of a spy movie. I open it up while removing a piece of paper from my pocket that’s got all the things GUARD found written on it. Sure enough, the computer is password protected. I type in the one GUARD pegged as Purdy’s main access code and, just like that, I’m in. I’m on an FBI computer.
“God bless you, GUARD,” I whisper.
The desktop is littered with files. At the bottom of the screen are a few applications. I open up Purdy’s email, figuring if anything, it might be the easiest way of getting info on Sarah. The first password GUARD handed over is a bust, but the second one gets me in.
I type Sarah’s name into the search bar so fast that I misspell it twice. Finally, it goes through, bringing back over fifty emails containing her name. I shudder to think how many times my name might pop up in these emails, but that’s not what I’m here to find out. I sort through the newest ones first until I hit the jackpot.
Detainee Hart has been transferred to the facility at Dulce.
Dulce. I recognize the name immediately from back issues of They Walk Among Us and old posts on the blog. It’s a name that pops up all the time—a secret government base where weird stuff is supposedly always going down. A small-scale Area 51.
Sarah is being held in Dulce. New Mexico. Half a country away.
I have to go to New Mexico.
I start looking through other emails when I hear the station door slam shut, followed by a string of curses from what sounds like Purdy’s voice.
Shit. Sitting in front of me is a wealth of information—maybe enough to change the tide of the battle between the Loric and the Mogs. A battle that will decide what happens to Earth. I was hoping to have more time on the computer, then just to sneak out and let Purdy think I was never there. If I leave now, I can try to find Sarah and figure out what else is going on between the FBI and the Mogs on my own. But if I take the computer, if I steal this FBI laptop, maybe I can be the hero. With GUARD’s help, I can crack everything on the hard drive. Who knows what all we might learn. Sarah can help, once I’ve saved her. If this laptop has good intel on it, maybe I can save everyone.
And wouldn’t Sarah be impressed by that?
“Fuck it,” I say, pulling the power adapter out of the wall and taking the computer under my arm.
As Purdy berates the agent at the front desk, I unlock one of the windows to Dad’s office and slip out. In a flash, I’m in my truck, shooting through the alley. I take one last look at the station as I drive away. Purdy’s still in the front. Good. Maybe I’ll have a while before he realizes what’s happened.
Just enough time to leave Paradise.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I HAVE BREAKFAST IN A DINER A FEW HOURS outside of Paradise: a steaming pile of pancakes and two sides of bacon. I was never a big coffee drinker, but I’m on my third cup. I need to stay alert and awake. I’ve got a long drive ahead of me.
Between bites of pancakes, I spin my burner phone on the table. My actual phone is sitting somewhere on the side of the road outside of Paradise, completely wiped clean of all my personal files and run over by my truck. All the info I need is on my burner now. I’m concerned about Sarah not having my number if she tries to contact me, but I can’t risk anyone tracking me. Besides, I still have email, and I plan on emailing her every day until I see her again. I’ll have GUARD figure out how to block my IP address or bounce my emails off a satellite or something.
I’ve already cancelled the automatic blog post. It will remain in my drafts folder for now. I’m not ready to come out with all this information. Something tells me I need to save it for later, when it can be used more strategically.
I thought about calling my family and trying to explain myself further, but I can’t risk it. They won’t understand, and giving them any info about where I’m going or what I’m doing is dangerous for them. I just hope that they aren’t too upset. With any luck, Sarah and I will be back in time for prom. Assuming there is still a prom. Assuming there is still a Paradise.
The diner’s pretty empty—the sun is only just starting to rise in the distance—but I’m still cautious. I wait until the old man in the booth behind me leaves before I pull out the laptop and open it up. I’m not even sure where to begin. Maybe it’d be best if I just mail the damn thing to GUARD. . . .
No. If anything on here will help me find Sarah, I need the info now. More than just the town she’s in. I need to know how I can help her.
I flit through some emails, mostly full of terminology I don’t recognize. I tell myself that over time I’ll analyze every word in these correspondences. There seems to be problems between the FBI and the Department of Defense, and I rack my brain to try and remember anything from my American government class about what it is the Department of Defense does other than something vaguely related to keeping the country safe. There are also a bunch of references to a secretary who’s helping out the Mogs, but I don’t know why Purdy’s so interested in some office assistant.
After a while I take a break from emails and start looking around for information in other places. I start clicking around the computer’s desktop. One folder stands out to me: MogPro.
Mogs.
I double click the folder, but instead of opening up like it should, a password terminal flashes on the screen. No username request, just a password field floating on top of the desktop. I try to escape from it or click on one of the other files, but it blocks me from doing anything else. I pull out the list of passwords GUARD sent me and try out the one that got me into the computer. A small red “X” appears below the password field.
Okay.
I try the next one and end up with another red “X.” As I hit Enter on the third one, it dawns on me what the “X”s probably mean.
“Oh no, no, no, no,” I whi
sper. But it’s too late. I’ve fucked up. A third “X” appears, and suddenly there’s a whirring from inside the computer as the hard drive spins into overdrive. In the background I see files disappearing from the desktop. Finally, the screen goes black. The power button is unresponsive.
“No!” I shout. “Son of a bitch!”
I slam my fist on the table, rattling my dishes. The sparse customers at the diner all turn to look at me. My waitress hurries over.
“Everything all right over here?” she asks, with a little more annoyance in her voice than worry.
“Yeah,” I say, pulling out my wallet. “I just . . . lost my homework.”
I start to hand her my debit card but pull back before she can take it. I’ve seen enough crime shows to know I shouldn’t be leaving a trail. Instead I hand her a twenty and wonder if it’s already too late for me to hit up an ATM—if doing so will bring a hoard of FBI agents choppering in from the sky.
I’m fuming at myself when I walk outside and think about chucking the laptop in the air and kicking it into the parking lot. But it may be useful still. I’m only just learning about all this computer stuff. Maybe GUARD can still get something off the hard drive. Maybe even info that’ll help the Loric and the rest of the world if the Mogs one day decide to invade on a massive scale.
I get in my truck and pull onto the highway. There are hardly any cars in sight. The sun’s at my back. My eyes are bloodshot from all the coffee, but I’ll be fine. Better that than to be falling asleep on the road. After all, it’s another twenty hours until I’m in New Mexico.
Excerpt from The Fall of Five
DON’T MISS BOOK FOUR IN THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING I AM NUMBER FOUR SERIES
CHAPTER ONE
TONIGHT’S ESCAPE FANTASY STARS SIX. A HORDE of Mogadorians stands between her and my cell—which isn’t technically realistic. The Mogs don’t usually devote any manpower whatsoever to keeping watch on me, but this is a dream, so whatever. The Mog warriors unsheathe their daggers and charge forward, howling. In response, Six tosses her hair and turns invisible. I watch from between the bars of my cell as she slices through the Mogs, blinking in and out of visibility, turning their own weapons against them. She twists her way through an ever-increasing cloud of ash, the Mogs soon completely decimated.
I Am Number Four: The Lost Files: Return to Paradise Page 7